


Highway Unicorn

by Nanoochka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Accidents, Car Sex, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Public Sex, Road Head, and derek sounds like a girl, in which stiles is a terror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is awesome at giving road head. Presumably, he's good at getting it as well. Derek? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway Unicorn

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a single day just to see if I could, because it's been a while since I wrote something short and fun. Thanks to [secondstar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/secondstar) and [qthelights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights) for the helpful betas on such short notice! Written for Failwolf Friday.
> 
> Wanna come hang on Tumblr? You can find me under [nanoochka](http://nanoochka.tumblr.com/) and we'll braid each other's hair and shit.

     Derek takes driving seriously. Or, more accurately, Derek takes not fucking up the Camaro seriously. He loves the quiet growl of the engine and the smooth shifting of the gears as they rumble past the gravel-and-dirt roads of the Preserve and onto the highway that leads back into town; loves the perfect tension of the steering wheel beneath his hands, responsive to his touch like a purring cat. There are few enough things Derek can actually say he likes the way he likes the Camaro, so he’s careful not to spoil it. Difficult, given his lifestyle, but he tries. 

     The other thing he likes is currently sitting splayed-leg and comfortable in the passenger seat, somehow taking up far more space than ought to be possible for a 150 lb. teenager. Not that Derek minds; one of his favourite things about Stiles is his ability to make anyplace feel less empty, even without saying or doing anything. Stiles is often wrongly accused of being an incessant chatterbox—and maybe he is, in contrast to Derek, though by those standards even Boyd could be considered verbose—but he’s more than capable of being quiet when he wants to be, can appreciate silence without needing to fill it with words. Not that Derek minds that either, at least not anymore. Admittedly he enjoys the sound of Stiles’s voice, even when Derek has no clue what he’s talking about. But right now the inside of the Camaro is quiet and easy and comfortable, which Derek likes most of all. 

     They took off from his old house with no particular destination or purpose in mind other than to enjoy a rare opportunity to be alone, away from the watchful eyes of Stiles’s father and the far more bemused, curious gazes of the rest of the pack. The idea was to drive Stiles home after dinner but that doesn’t seem to be where they’re headed, exactly. Instead they’re meandering not-quite-aimlessly. Derek has pointed the car vaguely in the direction of Stiles’s house, even if their route is rather circuitous and doubles back on itself more often than not; perfect for two people looking to waste a little time. The backroads of Beacon County crisscross over rugged terrain filled with roughly cleared forest and exposed rock faces, country Derek has always loved for how far removed it seems from what most people think of as “California.” Driving through this landscape, kind of like being alone with Stiles, is his Zen place. To have both at the same time makes for one damn good buzz.

     So it comes as something of a surprise when, after about thirty minutes of aimless driving, they find themselves caught in a traffic jam ten miles out of town. “Flashing lights ahead,” is all Derek says, narrowing his eyes, and eventually they slow to a stop behind the glaring red lights of the minivan in front of them. Then they proceed to wait. And wait.

     Judging by the flares dotting the opposite lane, there appears to be an accident on the other side of the road, a common enough occurrence even with the light NoCal snowfall. Although traffic in these parts is typically sparse, either the whole road has been blocked off, making it impossible to advance or turn around and go back the way they came, or everyone has slowed down to look, a voyeuristic trait that makes Derek want to bash his head against the steering wheel in frustration. Maybe he’s seen too much blood and death in his time, but it drives him insane. 

     After several minutes tick by without any forward progress, he’s reluctantly forced to assume it’s the former. The police seem to have set up a decently sized perimeter around whatever’s happened up ahead. By all accounts, it looks like they’re stranded here for the time being, though Derek keeps his foot on the brake just in case, rather than shifting the car into park.

     “This blows,” Stiles complains, and manages to hold out an additional thirty seconds before he starts to fidget. Derek has to reach out and place a hand on his knee when Stiles’s leg begins to bounce. Though Stiles whines in response, he forces himself to go still. For a while, anyway; Derek can practically feel the muscles twitching beneath his palm. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here? I’ve got a history essay to write tonight. Should I run up ahead and see if my dad is around?”

     “What’d be the point?” answers Derek calmly. “It’s not like he’d clear the accident himself just to make sure you get home on time. Besides, it’s pretty cold out. Better to stay in here where it’s warm.”

     Stiles grunts. “You never know,” he responds mulishly, and folds his arms. “What are we supposed to do now?”

     “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like a rousing game of Beaver Panel is off the table,” Derek retorts, and Stiles squints at him.

     “What the hell is Beaver Panel?”

     Smirking, Derek sends him a sidelong glance accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his knee. “I’m guessing you didn’t go on many family roadtrips as a kid.”

     Stiles snorts. “Can you imagine my parents willingly subjecting themselves to hours in a car with _me_? I wouldn’t inflict that on my worst enemy. Well, maybe Peter.”

     “And yet here I am. Stuck in a car with you.” Predictably, that comment earns Derek a punch to the shoulder, and he chuckles when Stiles withdraws his hand with a pained noise and makes a show of cradling it against his chest.

     “We could play I Spy—” he begins, and Derek quickly cuts him off with a pained, “What are you, twelve? No.”

     “You’re the one who brought it up,” grumbles Stiles, pouting impressively. Derek mentally counts down from ten in his head, and makes it to three before Stiles reaches out and turns on the radio, then starts fiddling with the dials and scrolling through the channels at the rate of one station every five seconds. After about twelve stations, Derek feels himself gritting his teeth, and snaps out his hand to flick the radio off. Pop music pisses him off at the best of times; he doesn’t need to listen to Ke$ha and Katy Perry in two-second increments.

     “Could you not?” he snaps when Stiles glares at him. “Don’t you have Angry Birds on your phone or something? Play that if you’re bored.”

     Because apparently he _is_ twelve, not eighteen, Stiles mutters, “I’m so over Angry Birds,” and then falls silent. Derek knows it won’t last, and can predict the amount of time it’ll take for Stiles to start fidgeting again down to the second; can even anticipate Stiles chewing mulishly on his already-ragged cuticles. But what he doesn’t expect is the predatory expression that crosses Stiles’s face after a moment, followed by a quiet sigh that is decidedly not impatient. “I know _something_ we can do,” he says, and his tone is so _deliberate_ that Derek is forced to look at him with both eyebrows raised.

     He’s grateful the dark interior of the car hides his blush; Stiles would never let him hear the end of it otherwise. “That’s a terrible idea,” he says, and to his immense relief the cars ahead of him pick that moment to advance a few feet. Barely a full car length, as it turns out, but that’s better than nothing. Besides, it backs up his argument somewhat. “Look, we’re moving again. Now is _not_ the time to be getting handsy in the car. For all we know your dad is somewhere up ahead.”

     Stiles’s smile is pure evil as he unlatches his seatbelt, then slides his butt down to the edge of the seat. He undoes the buttons of his wool peacoat and shimmies out of it. “First of all, your windows are tinted. Secondly, I doubt we’re gonna get out of here for another hour at _least_. Thirdly, if you see my dad or another cop getting close, tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

     Derek shakes his head, face still hot with embarrassment. No matter his body’s interest Stiles’s proposed activity, he’s not one for sex where they run the risk of getting caught. Even the thought of getting Stiles partially naked right here, right now, causes his body temperature to spike and makes Derek want to crack the window or start fanning himself like a fucking Victorian-era maiden. Sometimes he suspects Stiles does this to him on purpose. No, scratch that—Derek is definitely sure Stiles does this to him on purpose, the little fucker. His primary argument in favour of public sex is that Derek’s body was made to be shared with the world.

     “I hate to break it to you,” Derek says as evenly as possible, “but your dad doesn’t have to be a werewolf to know what sex smells like. If he walked up to this car, he’d know.” Especially since Stiles tends to look ridiculously debauched after, no matter how much or how little they get up to. He flushes red all the way down his neck and bites his lips until they look even more beestung than usual, and it takes less than one run of a hand through his hair to get it sticking up in all directions, seemingly impervious to all attempts to get it under control again. No, you’d have to be an idiot not to figure out they’d been fooling around, and Stiles’s dad is anything but.

     “Then you better not do anything to make him come over here.” Stiles dimples at him and fucking _winks_ , and like he has a vested interest in sending Derek into cardiac arrest—he’d be the first werewolf ever to die of a heart attack—proceeds to unfasten his pants, shoving them down to his knees along with his underwear. His cock lolls against his thigh. Derek chokes a bit when he glances down and sees Stiles has already mentally worked himself up to a half-chub, the tip of his erection glistening wet beneath the red glow of the dash lighting. To be eighteen again; Derek wouldn’t wish it on anyone, except maybe right now. Right now, eighteen is excruciatingly hot and, above all else, fucking terrifying.

     “Jesus Christ, Stiles—” Derek bites out as Stiles gasps a little and begins to stroke himself, getting himself fully hard and hitching his hips into his hand with each flick of his wrist. 

     At the first moan that slides past Stiles’s lips, Derek sort of wants to pass out on the spot. That might be difficult, though, given how he can’t tear himself away, darting his gaze between the sight of Stiles’s dick and his slack, almost dreamy expression, eyes bright as he watches Derek and pleasures himself at the same time. Derek flinches a little when Stiles reaches over with his free hand and rubs his palm over the front of Derek’s jeans, the fly straining a little over the impressive boner he’s managed to spring in under a minute. Apparently the difference between eighteen and twenty-four is a lot more negligible than Derek previously believed.

     “C’mon,” murmurs Stiles, fingers inching towards Derek’s fly, the pressure of his hand confident and teasing all at once. “It’ll be awesome. Just trust me.”

     “You are not acting _remotely_ trustworthy right now,” Derek snaps, but doesn’t bat Stiles’s hand away as he begins to undo Derek’s button fly. In fact, Derek pops the seatbelt release himself and claws the vinyl out of the way to give Stiles better access, slouching down in his seat and tilting his his pelvis to inch his jeans down his hips. Not far, just in case, but enough. 

     Next to him, Stiles continues to slowly jack himself even as he tugs Derek free of his jockeys and squeezes gently around the base of the shaft. Derek, far more excited by this than he’ll willingly admit later, can’t contain the guttural sound he makes in his throat. He briefly pushes his head back into the seat and twitches his foot away from the brake pedal, causing the car to jerk forwards by almost a foot until he slams them to a halt again.

     The laugh that drifts over to him from Stiles’s side of the car is a dirty, dirty old man laugh, wicked and knowing, and Derek shivers at the sound of it, the fond, hungry look in Stiles’s eyes. “Easy, tiger,” he all but purrs, and then he’s shifting onto his side and leaning forward into the driver’s side of the car to take Derek into his mouth.

     His moan is embarrassingly loud in the quiet Camaro, and the soft, moist sounds Stiles makes as he starts to suck Derek off are barely enough to distract from it; it’s audible even over the low hum of the engine. Hell, Derek can all but feel the smile his response elicits from Stiles, undeterred by how his mouth is stretched wide and screwing down towards the base of Derek’s dick. Derek’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel with a creak of leather and his eyes roll back. He doesn’t know what he did in a past life to deserve this, but Stiles gives head like it’s what he was born for, sloppy and enthusiastic and scarily perfect.

     For once he goes slow and takes his time, simultaneously dragging it out and driving Derek to distraction, pumping his hand as he slurps at the head of Derek’s cock and swirls his tongue in absolutely filthy, obscene ways around the tip. He alternates between this and sucking him all the way down, cheeks hollowed and going so deep that Derek can feel the flutter and clench of Stiles’s throat before he pulls off with a wet pop. He’s noisy, too, whimpering a little from excitement because he hasn’t stopped jerking off this whole time. Derek wants to reach over and take over for him but he’s also fucking petrified of letting go of the wheel, of what might happen without this small thing to tether himself to sanity.

     The vehicle in front of them advances, leaving the afterimage of red brake lights in Derek’s vision. For a moment he does nothing, not trusting himself to press the gas, but then the car to their rear beeps the horn and Derek curses under his breath, edging forwards. When the van stops and Stiles gently tugs at Derek’s foreskin first with his lips, then more carefully with his teeth, torturing him just the way Derek once showed him he likes, Derek slams his foot on the brake so hard that the Camaro jolts violently to a halt. It’s like Stiles barely notices, continuing to bob his head in Derek’s lap until Derek’s breath goes erratic and his hips can’t stay still. He wishes he could spread his legs wider but his jeans and underwear are too confining. Like a ridiculous movie cliché, the windows have already started to steam up.

     Stiles pulls off just long enough to pant harshly and gasp, “Put your hand on my head,” before diving back down, and Derek shudders out a weak “ _Fuck_ ,” when the incredible heat of Stiles’s mouth surrounds him again. 

     The air is slightly chilly against his palm when he releases the wheel, having long ago gone damp with sweat. But he does as he’s told, curling his fingers into Stiles’s hair just tightly enough that they’ll both feel the pull. He knows Stiles wants this, wants Derek to grab at his hair and press his head down, and the grateful mewl Stiles makes around his cock sends a bone-deep thrill through Derek’s body. He really and truly feels like he’s going out of his mind, Stiles edging him closer and closer to an orgasm that ought not to be possible in such a short period of time, but nevertheless, Derek can feel it building at the bottom of his spine and making his whole pelvis seem to ache pleasurably, causing the minute rhythm of his hips to falter. Judging from the way Stiles is stroking himself even faster and the almost constant noises that escape past his lips, little animal whimpers that tickle and tease around Derek’s cock, Derek isn’t the only one ready to blow his load.

     The line of cars moves forwards again, Derek advancing with them in a mindless, unsteady lurch as his foot stutters on the pedal, and he stops just short of the bumper up ahead, legs dangerously close to shaking the way they always do when he’s on the verge of coming, muscles spasming out of control. There’s a police officer coming up the lane on foot, carrying a flashlight and periodically stopping to speak to people inside the other vehicles. Derek should pull the fuck over before he causes another accident or invites unwanted scrutiny, the likes of which would be disastrous no matter how dark his windows are tinted. This is reckless and stupid and he knows it, but he doesn’t think he can manage more than an occasional press and release of the break at this stage; turning the wheel and guiding the car onto the shoulder is beyond his current capabilities. With the windows properly steamed up now, the windshield sensor picks up on the moisture and sends the wipers swishing back and forth with a squeak of rubber against glass. Derek wants to tell Stiles to stop but can’t, carried away by the persistent, devastating pull-and-suck motions of that _mouth_ , Jesus, that mouth, and the repetitive sound of Stiles’s hand pumping his own cock. And above it all is the harshness of their mingled breathing and intermittent moans, both of them gone noisy and desperate and Derek hardly giving a fuck.

     “You’re gonna make me come,” he says a near-whine, voice a frankly embarrassing squeak. His fingers clench around Stiles’s hair in warning, but all it does is make Stiles suck harder, bob faster, vocal cords vibrating as he takes Derek’s cock into his throat and groans shamelessly. Does the kid even know what a gag reflex is? Juddering hard at the sensation, Derek throws his head back and attempts to stifle a shout that emerges as more of a muffled holler instead. The car falters forward again and he slams the butt of his hand against the steering wheel. Typically, the pain isn’t nearly enough to distract him. All it achieves is to send them veering slightly to the right of their lane before he catches the brake again. “Stiles, I’m not messing around—your mouth, fuck—I don’t know if I can—”

     He breaks off in a moan that is shamelessly pornographic to his own ears, pitchy and rough like he spent the last hour getting his brains fucked out and screaming himself hoarse, rather than being on the receiving end of a too-fast blowjob in the front seat of his car. But whatever Derek might feel about the tenor—or lack thereof—of his own voice, it seems to work for Stiles, who suddenly chokes and pulls a little ways off Derek’s cock to utter a soft wail. He tenses beneath Derek’s hand and comes almost violently, his whole body bucking as he shoots, white and sticky, all over his shirt. The cry he gives is soul-destroyingly hot. Later, Derek will consider it a miracle he didn’t get his dick bitten off, but for the moment all he can do is obey the chain reaction Stiles’s orgasm sets in motion, which is to say his own punches out of him without warning and his foot jerks from the brake pedal to the gas as Stiles swallows his release down as easy as you please.

     Everything after that happens too quickly for even his werewolf reflexes. The car rams into the minivan in front, and Derek, still shuddering through the aftershocks of his orgasm, hasn’t got a hope in hell of stopping it. The sudden crunch and crash of metal is enough to jolt Stiles upright in alarm so that the final splash of Derek’s come hits him on the chin, and he shouts, “Derek, what the fuck!” even as Derek scrambles to replace his foot on the correct pedal. For all the good it’ll do now; the collision has already brought the Camaro to an abrupt halt, nestled in against the minivan’s rear end.

     No more than thirty seconds elapses before the driver of the van comes storming out of the vehicle. The cop from earlier is not far behind as he runs over to investigate the commotion. “What the hell?!” the driver shouts, marching up to Derek’s car, and begins pounding on the window with an open palm. That’ll leave fucking smudges later. “You just wrecked my goddamned car, asshole!”

     Inside the Camaro there is a frantic scramble as Derek attempts to shake off the last woozy vestiges of his orgasm and straighten out his clothes. Stiles is way ahead of him, jeans already zipped and buttoned, though there’s no repairing—or disguising—the obscene amount of come staining his shirt. Except maybe there is, since Stiles grabs his jacket up off the floor and struggles into it, buttoning it over the worst of the damage. 

     Meanwhile, the police officer from outside raps on the window and calls out, “Sir, would you step out of the car, please?”

     “Oh my _god_ ,” moans Stiles, hands a flurry of useless movement. “What the hell were you thinking? How is this even my life?” Being in a comparatively more respectable state than Derek, he shoves open the passenger side door and tumbles out, then starts waving his arms to attract everyone’s attention as he moves around the back of the car. “It’s okay, officer!” he shouts. “It’s me, Stiles. This was totally, 100 percent an accident, nobody panic!”

     Derek takes advantage of the distraction to finish doing up his pants, then opens his own door and climbs out, legs shaky as a newborn fawn’s so that he has to catch himself against the roof of the car. It takes roughly ten seconds for the deputy and the other driver to assess the scene before them: the fogged-up windows, Derek and Stiles’s matching state of disarray, especially Stiles’s impressive case of cocksucker lips and hopelessly tousled hair. And the smell. Jesus, even with the doors open the car positively reeks of sex and semen. Worse still, Derek glances over at Stiles and notices the very visible blob of come still on his chin, drying and starting to flake.

     “Stiles!” he snaps, and furiously mimes wiping his face with his sleeve.

     Brow furrowed, Stiles scrubs a hand over his mouth and, coming away with sticky fingers, mutters a horrified “Oh, shi—”

     “Are you serious right now?” demands the driver of the van, voice outraged. He tries to get in Derek’s face despite the cautionary hand the deputy places on his arm. It takes all of one heartfelt glare from Derek to make him step back, though his yelling doesn’t cease. “You’re having sex in a car in the middle of a traffic jam? _Really_? I’ve got my family with me, jerkoff! This is totally, totally inappropriate behaviour!”

     Derek holds up his hands placatingly, though he doesn’t know how well he manages to sell it with Stiles scowling in the background. “Listen,” he says, “I’m really sorry, but like Stiles said—this was an accident. I’ll obviously pay for the damage, though it doesn’t look that bad.” He really has no idea how it looks, actually, but peers at the back of the van to assess the situation. Thankfully he doesn’t see more than a bit of chipped paint and a shallow dent on the bumper. Most likely the Camaro took the brunt of the damage, because it’s a proven fact that Derek doesn’t deserve nice things.

     “I’m still going to need your license and registration,” says the deputy with regret in his voice, darting his eyes over at Stiles apologetically. “Standard procedure, and you _did_ run into his car. Not to mention the... other thing. You know. The public indecency.”

     “We were _not_ in public!” yelps Stiles, except for how they kind of were. “This is a private vehicle, not a city bus!”

     “Yeah, a private vehicle that just rammed into the back of my van while you we're busy blowing—”

     “Stiles?”

     Both he and Derek turn at the sound of the Sheriff's voice approaching from the same direction the deputy came from, shining a light into their faces to make sure he isn’t mistaken. It’s now official, thinks Derek: this night can’t get any better. “Heeeeeey, Dad,” says Stiles in a pained voice. “Fancy meeting you here.” At least he’d already wiped his face.

     “Sheriff, is this your son?” demands van guy, stepping forward. From his righteous tone, Derek is almost surprised he doesn’t try to grab him and Stiles by the ears and march them forwards. “You oughta be ashamed. Your kid and his boyfriend here rear-ended me while having sex in their car. I don’t even want to think about what my children might’ve seen.” He gestures emphatically at his van, and Derek flushes even more when, sure enough, he sees two children peering out at them through the back window, watching the proceedings with wide grins on their faces. Because apparently seeing their father get into altercations with other motorists passes for fun in Beacon Hills. He’s going to fucking kill Stiles. That is, if the Sheriff doesn’t kill them both first.

     Rationally, Derek knows Stiles’s dad is aware that Derek and Stiles are having sex—have been for a while, actually, though they didn’t actually confess to anything until Stiles was of legal age. Still, the safe-sex talk the Sheriff forced upon him when he found out is something Derek will never, ever be able to scrub from his brain. But talking about it in theory and seeing the aftermath with your own two eyes are very different things. And there’s no way their activities prior to the accident could be called into question. None. Not even Stiles is attempting to pass it off as anything else. 

     Big alpha werewolf that he is, Derek wants to sink into the ground in mortification and stay there awhile.

     It comes as something of a surprise when the Sheriff looks at him tiredly and asks, “Derek, is this true?” That he doesn’t even bother to get Stiles’s version is pretty telling. Stiles once said he wouldn’t believe anything that came out of his mouth either.

     Derek clears his throat. “We weren’t having sex exactly, sir,” he attempts, knowing he’s trying to make some awfully sketchy semantics work in his favour, but at this point he’ll try anything to avoid having to explain the particulars. Just as the van driver begins to object, he adds, “But clearly we made a bad judgement call that resulted in damage to this man’s property.” Something is missing. After a beat, he amends, “For that we’re very sorry.”

     He’s long suspected an important filter was left out when they assembled Stiles’s brain, but he hates to be proven right as Stiles mutters under his breath, “I’d say it won’t happen again, except that’d be a lie.”

     The Sheriff catches the remark loud and clear, and his expression darkens to one of exasperation tinged with true embarrassment. “You,” he barks, pointing a stern finger in Stiles’s direction. “Get your ass over to my squad car _now_ , and don’t budge until such time as I drive you home. Which, by the way, is someplace you’ll be seeing a great deal of in the foreseeable future when I ground your ass _for life_.” To the driver and the deputy, he says, “I apologize on my son and Derek’s behalf. You’re absolutely right this behaviour is unacceptable, and I’ll see to it myself that they’re dealt with. In the meantime, Deputy Seaborn here can take down all the correct insurance information. Derek will cover the repairs in full. Unless you prefer I handcuff them both and throw them in lockup for the night?”

     Caught off guard by the Sheriff’s glibness—or perhaps by being given a say in Derek and Stiles’s fate—the driver hesitates and then says, “N-no, the insurance information will be fine. As long as a lesson’s been learned here.”

     Practiced in dealing with people in a way Derek will never, ever be, the Sheriff plasters a confident smile on his face and steps forward to shake the man’s hand, patting him on the back with the other. “I assure you, it will be. Besides, we’ve only got one cell free right now. If I hauled them in they’d probably just enjoy the privacy.”

     At that, Derek makes a choking sound and the man looks incredibly confused. “Er, I’ll just go get my wallet, thanks Sheriff,” he says, then wanders back to his van. Derek envies him his retreat.

     “Stiles, get going before I change my mind about the handcuffs,” says the Sheriff, nodding in the direction where—presumably—his cruiser is parked farther along down the road. “And hand over your phone. I don’t wanna hear so much as a peep out of you until this accident is cleared and we let these people get on their way home.”

     Gaping, Stiles gestures wildly around him, indicating everything and nothing at once. “But that’ll be hours from now! I have a history paper due!”

     “Then you shoulda kept it in your pants, son.” To Derek, the Sheriff says, “I expect you for dinner tomorrow night at six. I hope it goes without saying that you and me are due for another chat, since obviously it didn’t sink in the last time.” He reaches out and clamps a hand around Stiles’s nape where his son has started to slink past him, sullenly making his way towards the car. Looking for all intents and purposes like he’s about to drag Stiles off by the scruff of the neck, the Sheriff adds, “Seaborn, you okay to handle the rest of this while I go lock my kid in the trun—I mean, the back of the cruiser?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Fantastic. Derek, see you tomorrow. On time. And you’d better show up with dessert.”

     Derek is left staring after them as the Sheriff hauls Stiles off in the other direction, and after a second he becomes aware of Deputy Seaborn coming to stand at his shoulder. “I, uh. I got caught by my dad the first time I got road head,” he offers, lifting his hand to clap Derek on the shoulder, then thinking better of it. His arm falls uselessly back down to his side. “Then again, the car was parked in the garage at the time.”

     The sentiment is appreciated—sort of. Derek grunts noncommittally and stuffs his hands into his armpits like he’s cold. Murder. He’s gonna murder his boyfriend and finally live up to all those manslaughter charges he’s managed to dodge over the years.

     From several yards away, the boyfriend in question somehow escapes his father’s death grip just enough to send Derek a double thumbs-up, flashing his goofy, ridiculous smile like Derek isn’t currently trying to kill him with his mind. “Call me later,” Stiles shouts back at him, making a pretend phone with his hand and holding it up to his ear. “And that was still awesome!”


End file.
